


Of death and other undesirable outcomes

by ylc



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Injury, Insecurity, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not As Dark As The Tags Make It Sound, Pining, lots of pining, that's mostly to get the story going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: Magic has a very simple rule: There is no conjuring something from nothing. There’s a give and a take.In order to stop death, a price must be paid.The question is, how much is a life worth?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 78
Kudos: 586





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Historically, having more than one WIP at the time doesn’t really work for me, but also I don’t have anything resembling self control so… there’s that :P  
> I feel like I should mention my knowledge of the Witcher’s canon comes from the Netflix show and bits and pieces I’ve found looking around the internet so… I apologize for any inaccuracies you might find.  
> And now, without further ado, enjoy!

If there’s a certainty in a Witcher’s life, is that their death won’t be pleasant.

Geralt kneels on the ground, fighting off the wave of dizziness that’s stopping him from moving. The creature’s stinger is buried deep in his abdomen and it continues pumping venom even with the monster no longer attached to it. He knows he needs to remove it if he’s hoping to live to see another day, but his strength was considerably diminished by the fight and the lack of sleep and food in the last few days (or weeks or months, who is counting?) probably isn’t helping either.

“What do I do?” Ciri demands, panic clear in her tone although she’s doing her best not to give into it. She doesn’t touch him, concerned it might make matters worse and Geralt has just enough presence of mind to worry for the girl’s fate, once he’s gone.

He couldn’t have chosen a worst time to die, really. “The stinger,” he says or at least tries to. “You need to remove it.” He’s not entirely sure his words are truly understandable, he’s all too aware he’s slurring them, the venom coursing through his blood stream making it hard to breath, let alone speak.

“Right,” Ciri murmurs, looking at the gigant stinger sticking out from his stomach. “Right. This is-- right. I can do it,” she’s not really talking to him any more, she’s just attempting to reassure herself. Geralt isn’t sure it’s working and he thinks briefly that destiny has been most unfair to the poor child. “Right, here we go,” she murmurs, putting on her gloves (smart girl) before placing her hands anywhere near the stinger. 

The thing is buried deep within, so it doesn’t move an inch when she pulls. Ciri makes a frustrated sound that might also be hiding a sob and she tries once more, all the while Geralt attempts and fails to get some control of his body back in order to help. He thinks that the worst bit is that if he dies, the poor princess will blame herself and that wouldn’t be fair at all.

The edges of the world are getting steadily darker and Geralt knows he’s about to faint any minute now. Ciri continues to pull at the stinger with little success, apologizing over and over again. Geralt wants to tell her it’s fine, that this is not her fault in any way, but his limbs feel too heavy, his tongue too clumsy and before he knows it he’s falling over, darkness taking him over.

He hears Ciri’s cry distantly, as if it was but part of a dream and then he knows no more.

* * *

Geralt wakes up to find himself on Roach’s back, Ciri urging the mare forward. His abdomen feels a bit tender, but the stinger is no longer there, so that is good news. The bad news is that they had been in the middle of nowhere, the nearest town at least a couple of days of travel away. Geralt had insisted staying away from the main roads was in their best interests, that they’d be safer that way and the irony doesn’t go unnoticed by him. 

He closes his eyes once more, tiredness overtaking him despite his desire to reassure Ciri of his continued existence. He can smell the girl’s fear along with her grief and he wants to say something comforting, but his body is having none of it.

He can only hope he’ll manage it later.

* * *

“The venom has spread all through his blood stream,” someone is saying when Geralt wakes up once again. His eyelids feel way too heavy and so he can not pry them open and must resign himself to only listen to the healer. “I fear there’s nothing to be done.”

Ciri is crying, but her sobs are quiet, discreet. As if she’s trying her best not to drag any attention to herself. “There must be something,” another voice pleads, an all too familiar voice although Geralt’s dizzy brain is finding hard to place it.

The healer hums, thoughtful. “There are no natural ways to save your friend,” he says after a beat. “But there might be some unnatural ones. There’s a sorcerer, not so far away from here, that’s rumored to be experimenting on… _methods_ to prolong life. He might be able to help, but be warned: it won’t come cheaply.”

Doesn’t that sound ominous? Geralt wants to tell them not to bother, that it’s not wise to mess with sorcerers and especially not with those that use _questionable_ methods but his throat feels swollen and breathing is hard enough: he does not imagine talking is among his possibilities right now.

Before he can try, darkness overcomes him once more.

* * *

The passage of time has always been a little fuzzy to Geralt: when you’ve lived as long as he has, time holds little meaning. He thinks it’s been some weeks since the last time he woke up though, if only because at the time of the attack it had been the last few weeks of winter and the smells outside the room signal spring has come.

He sits up slowly, his head still feeling a little dizzy. The world is spinning, although not terribly quick and so it’s not as disorienting as it could be. He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in, although if he had to hazard a guess he’d say he’s at an inn, the sounds of the floor below cementing this idea. His shirt is gone and his body is covered in sweat, which he guesses explains the few clothes. He feels tired, but not deadly so, although he’d kill for a glass of water.

There’s a new scar running across his abdomen, which he guesses is to be expected, but what grabs his attention right away is the mark next to it. Someone has carved a sigil upon his flesh, the cuts careful and methodical. He does not recognize the simbol, but a feeling of dread fills him right away.

He presses onto the mark, feeling the magic humming beneath his skin. Dark tendrils spread across his abdomen as he presses, but there’s no pain although the spot feels vaguely hot. He frowns, considering, uncertain of how he feels about the development.

Before he can consider it for long though, the door opens, revealing a disheveled Ciri. At first the girl doesn’t seem to notice he’s awake, her attention on not spilling the water from the heavy jug she’s carrying. When she looks up though and finds him sitting on the bed, she drops the jug and lets out an incredulous cry.

“You’re awake!” she exclaims, hurrying to his side and throwing her arms around his neck. “You’re awake,” she repeats, unbelieving, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Geralt says, hugging her back. “I’m sorry you were scared.”

Ciri shakes her head, burying her face against the Witcher’s collarbone. “Don’t do that again, please,” she whispers softly, still crying. “Please don’t.”

It’s not a promise he can actually hope to maintain and so he says nothing, hugging the girl tighter instead. “You did very well,” he tells her, kissing the top of her head. “You handled yourself admirably. And you saved me.” Although at which cost remains to be seen, but he supposes he ought not spoil the mood.

“I had some help,” Ciri murmurs and then pulls away abruptly. “Oh, right! He doesn’t know you’re awake yet!” She rushes for the door once more, “wait here!” she orders, closing the door with a bang behind her as if Geralt could go anywhere.

Geralt blinks, processing the girl’s words. Who’s this mysterious _he_ and what role did he play in his _rescue?_ He does remember another voice back at the healer’s, but he still can’t place it. He doesn’t trust strangers on principle and with Nilfgaard looking for the young princess, he does not want to take any chances although he supposes that if their mysterious helper meant them any harm, Geralt wouldn’t have woken up to begin with.

He presses the odd sigil on his abdomen once more, trying to untangle the spell woven into it. He does not understand it and it looks quite tricky, which means the sorcerer must be a very accomplished one and he can only imagine what he demanded in exchange for his spell.

Before he can work himself into a right panic though, the door opens once more and Ciri strolls forward, dragging a man after her.

Geralt’s heart stops very abruptly in his chest.

“Hello Geralt,” Jaskier greets, a tired smile on his lips. “You gave us a right fright,” he adds and Geralt just stares at him, taking in his appearance. It hasn’t been that long since the last time they saw each other and yet the bard looks very different now: he’s even skinner and looks sickly pale, eyes dulled and hair not as shiny.

“Jaskier,” he greets finally, at loss of what the right greeting would be. He can not deny he had hoped he’d meet the bard again but he had also hoped their reunion would be under happier circumstances. “What-- how--”

“Well, you see, that’s a bit of a funny story,” Jaskier replies, although his expression seems to contradict the _funny_ bit. “And it proves destiny has a curious sense of humor. You see, I’m just wandering the streets, minding my own business, when this mare comes barreling towards me. I recognized Roach right away and your unconscious form of course and then this little cub is yelling at me for help and well…” he waves a hand, gesturing at their surroundings vaguely. “Here we are.”

That seems a little too convenient. “The healer said there was no way to save me,” Geralt says, because he’s not sure he wants to think about destiny’s sense of humor right now. 

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier says, looking away. “We had to resort to desperate measures.”

“We went to a sorcerer,” Ciri says, eyes wide. “He wasn’t very nice, but he said he could help.”

Sorcerers are rarely nice, but some are worse than others. “What was the sorcerer’s name?”

Jaskier bites his lip, reluctant to say but Ciri doesn’t seem to pick on his reluctance. “He said his name was Stregobor.”

The panic Geralt had felt lurking in the back of his mind lurches forward at the name. “What?!” he demands, anger colouring his tone. “How could you?!” he demands from Jaskier. Ciri didn’t know, of course but the bard does know the tale of Blaviken, of how the sorcerer manipulated the situation and Geralt’s resulting hurt at the whole mess.

Jaskier should have known that the sorcerer couldn’t be trusted. “You were dying,” the bard protests, sounding broken hearted. “How could I not?”

Ciri is looking between the two adults, looking deadly troubled now. Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose, telling himself he ought not to get mad at them for trying to save his life.

“What did he ask in exchange?” he asks finally and doesn’t miss the quick look his companions exchange.

“He said it was an experimental spell,” Jaskier replies softly, not meeting Geralt’s eyes. “He said that all he wanted was to test it out.”

“And you believed him?” Geralt growls.

“Well, what choice did we have?” Jaskier argues, growing annoyed no doubt. “What part of _you were dying_ you didn’t understand?”

Death would be preferable than becoming a pawn in Stregobor’s games, but saying as much might be a little ungrateful of him. Besides, while the statement rings true, Geralt is also painfully aware that his first and foremost responsibility right now is to protect Cirilla. Whatever happens next, whatever becomes of him afterwards-- that’s not that important. 

And in order to protect the princess, he must live, therefore--

Well. He’ll worry about Stregobor’s schemes later.

“I wish you hadn’t gone to that devil,” he says finally, rubbing his temples tiredly. “But I understand and I-- I’m thankful, I suppose.”

Jaskier bites his lip nervously, but nods. Ciri continues looking between the two adults, evidently unsure about the whole ordeal. A wave of nausea has Geralt closing his eyes, leaning back on the bed once more. Through half closed eyes he sees Ciri reaching for Jaskier and the bard tells her something very quietly before leaving the room. Geralt frowns, confused but before he can ask anything, Ciri beats him to it. “Do you want some water?” the girl asks, kneeling on the ground and starting to pick up the broken shreeds of the jug. “I’ll bring you some.”

Geralt grunts, the pain behind his eyelids making him want to go back to sleep. But he’d like a glass of water first, so he nods and listens as the girl exits the room.

All things considered, he supposes it’s not as bad as it could be. At least Ciri is safe, he’s not dying any longer and Jaskier… Jaskier is back in his life.

Not bad at all, truth be told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone? This idea came to me the other night and refused to leave me alone, so I gave in and wrote it down and well… here we are ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you thought!
> 
> Also, english is not my native language, so any mistakes you find feel free to point them out!
> 
> And on a slightly unrelated note (or maybe not so unrelated?), some of you might be aware the Fandom Trumps Hate Auction is taking place again this year (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you can find more info [here. ](https://fandomtrumpshate.dreamwidth.org/)
> 
> For fourth year in a row I’m offering a fic for the auction, so if you’re interested, here’s the link to my [post](https://fth2020offerings.dreamwidth.org/tag/username:+ylc). 
> 
> Bidding begins on monday 24th, remember, it’s for a good cause! And also be sure to check out other collaborators posts :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! We’ll get some answers, but they’ll probably raise more questions too ;)  
> The inspiration for how the spell works comes from Victoria Schwab’s series “Shades of magic”, so if you’re familiar with them, you’ll probably recognize some elements.  
> Anyway, enjoy!

Jaskier takes a deep breath, willing his stomach to settle. He’s just finished his breakfast, he’s not keen on losing it so early. He’s shaking, cold sweat rolling down his spine and he takes another shaky breath: he feels like he’s slowly dying and he supposes that’s not far away from the truth.

The door of the room opens, revealing a worried Ciri. He tries to smile at her, but he suspects it looks more like a grimace. The girl passes him a glass of water without prompting and he finishes it in one gulp.

“I gave Geralt water too,” she tells him. “He’s asleep once more.”

Jaskier nods, slowly sitting down on the corner of the bed. “I think I need to lie down too,” he murmurs, doing exactly that. Ciri watches him closely, concern evident in her face, lips drawn in a very thin line.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell him?” Ciri asks, approaching him. “I don’t-- I don’t think that’s very wise.”

Jaskier hums, closing his eyes. He can picture Geralt’s reaction to the news all too well and he’s not keen on seeing it first hand. He feels bad enough without having to add the Witcher’s anger and disgust to the mix.

He rest a hand against his abdomen, feeling the scar tissue even over his shirt. The sigil feels hot under the touch, the magic throbbing underneath his skin. He has no natural affinity for magic and yet he can feel the spell working, he imagines it must be much worse for Geralt.

“He doesn’t need to know,” he replies softly. “It’d only complicate things.”

Ciri frowns, sitting on the bed too. “I don’t understand,” she murmurs softly. “Don’t misinterpret me, I’m thankful for what you did but I-- I don’t understand. He hurt you.”

Jaskier huffs, a small smile on his lips. “Oh, he did,” he agrees softly. “And I’m angry at him for it. But I couldn’t let him die,” he shakes his head, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. 

“You love him,” the princess say. It’s an statement, not a question but Jaskier finds himself answering all the same.

“Yes,” he whispers softly. “I don’t think I could ever stop, not as long as I live.” 

Is it selfish, he wonders? To have tied Geralt to him in such way, even if it was to stop him from dying? He thinks Geralt won’t like it; no, _he’s certain_ of it. He won’t welcome the connection, if anything it’s likely it’ll only make their already frayed relationship much more strained. 

And yet he can not bring himself to regret it.

“You must not tell him, Ciri,” he says, opening his eyes and staring directly at the girl. “You must promise me you won’t.”

The girl looks far from happy, but she nods all the same and Jaskier smiles at her, squeezing her hand affectionately once. Keeping secrets rarely works out in the long run: the truth has a way of always coming to light.

But in this particular case, he hopes that won’t come to pass.

He’s not sure he could live with the consequences.

* * *

_Two weeks ago._

“You don’t trust me,” Stregobor says as he slowly craves the sigil on Geralt’s skin. Jaskier watches him like a hawk, waiting for the slightest sign of something going wrong to jump into action. He knows there’s little he could do against a sorcerer, of course, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try.

“No,” he replies calmly. “Why should I?”

Stregobor chuckles cruelly. “Aren’t you interested in my side of the story?” he asks, a dark glint in his eye as he holds Jaskier’s stare for a beat. 

“No,” Jaskier replies once again and the sorcerer chuckles once more, turning his attention back to his work.

“Loyal till the very end,” the older man murmurs, mostly to himself. “I wonder why,” he adds with a smirk. “I doubt he was interested before the charming Yennefer showed up, I imagine he was even more uninterested afterwards.” Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek, refusing to react and the man chuckles once more. “Don’t take it personal, bard. You know Witchers don’t have feelings and this one in particular--”

“Shut up,” Jaskier hisses, against his better judgement. He thinks briefly of Ciri, waiting just outside and worries for her safety should something come to pass.

“I could let him die,” Stregobor threatens and Jaskier takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down.

“You won’t,” he replies as calmly as he can. Stregobor arches an eyebrow, willing him to continue. “You want to test your spell and, as you pointed out, we’re the perfect test subjects.”

Stregobor hums, his smile growing even more cruel. “In more ways than you imagine, bard,” he grins, examining his handiwork. “Yes, quite perfect,” he murmurs to himself. “Now lie down. It’s your turn.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, trying and failing to keep his calm. He’s nervous, there’s no denying that-- he doesn’t trust the sorcerer, not one bit and yet he’s also painfully aware he has no other choice.

If he wants to save Geralt, this is their only choice.

And there’s very little he wouldn’t do for him.

* * *

_Present day_

Jaskier tries and fails to keep himself from shivering, the fever making him dizzy. He knows Geralt is no state to be traveling, the fever has yet to break and he’s very weak, but he also knows trying to argue with the Witcher on the subject is an exercise in futility. From her place perched over Roach’s back, Ciri keeps throwing worried glances in his direction as he tries to keep up the pace, but unlike Geralt, he simply doesn’t have the strength to be walking as if nothing was amiss.

“Maybe we should stop,” Ciri pleads, turning to Geralt. “You are still sick,” she tries to reason.

Geralt grunts, continuing to walk. “I’m fine. We’ve already wasted too much time.”

Ciri wants to protest and Jaskier shakes his head, signaling for her to be quiet. He feels tired and he knows he ought to stop, but if he says something, Geralt will ask what’s wrong with him and if he notices Jaskier is running a fever (just as bad as his own) he might start asking questions and if he asks the right questions--

Well.

He shudders once more but forces himself to soldier on, determined not to be a burden, not now, not ever again. Geralt’s words at the mountains still ring in his ears and while time has made the hurt more bearable, it’s still fresh in his mind. A part of him thinks Geralt didn’t mean most of the awful things he said, but another part of him can’t help to see the truth in them.

So no, Jaskier will not become a burden. He’ll soldier on even if he feels like he’s dying inside, he’ll prove to the world (but mostly to himself) that he’s a capable companion.

He’ll be fine.

Or rather, he’ll survive.

* * *

_Two weeks ago._

Pain seizes Jaskier’s whole body, so intense and sudden that it knocks all the breath out of him. He doubles over, eyes closed and then he knows no more.

When he wakes up again, he’s still in pain, but it’s much more tolerable now. From the corner of his eye he can see Ciri arguing with Stregobor, the girl looking both terrified and ready to raise hell. Jaskier tries to speak, but only a pained moan leaves his lips although it’s enough to get the princess’ attention.

“You’re awake!” she exclaims, grabbing his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Jaskier replies honestly, attempting and failing to sit up. “What happened?”

“The pain was too much for your body to handle,” Stregobor says, surveying him closely. “You passed out.”

Yes, he seems to remember that. He places a hand on his abdomen, feeling the new and still tender wound that it’s a perfect reflection of the one that nearly costed Geralt his life. “Did it work?” he asks, accepting Ciri’s help to sit up.

“It seems that way,” the sorcerer replies, moving away so the bed Geralt is lying on comes into view. The Witcher is still unconscious, but his breathing is more even now, not sounding as if he’s choking half of the time. His face is still contorted in pain, but not quite as badly as it was a while ago. “He’ll live.”

Jaskier nods, still prodding at his new wound. “Is he cured? The healer said the venom had spread--”

“He’ll live,” Stregobor repeats, a dark glint in his eye. “Your lives’ essence are now linked. Whenever the spell senses a disturbance on either side, it’ll borrow life from the other, balancing it out. It doesn’t work if either gets their throats slit, of course, but otherwise… ” He keeps his expression mostly neutral, but Jaskier can see him practically rubbing his hands together in his mind eye. 

“Our lives are tied together now, then? Injuries will reflect on one another but they will no longer be lethal?” Jaskier confirms.

“In theory,” Stregobor replies calmly. “But since you’re human-- your body wasn’t made to withstand half of the things a Witcher can. Your… _friend_ will have to be careful or you might end up getting seriously injured.” He looks in the direction of Geralt, a cruel smirk playing on his lips once more. “After all, the only reason the venom didn’t kill you this time around was because most of it had been drained beforehand. The spell only took enough of your own strength to purge out the rest of it.”

That sounds slightly ominous, but Jaskier figures it’s too late for regrets. In all truthness, he should have asked far more questions before agreeing to any of this, but time was the essence and in any case, there’s nothing he wouldn’t have done for Geralt.

“I’d suggest staying the night,” the sorcerer says, turning to him once more. “Just in case there are any complications. You should be feeling some pain and nausea, but not enough to pass out once more. And when the Witcher wakes up once more… well. Then you’ll be feeling whatever he feels.”

Jaskier nods tightly, ignoring the concerned looks Ciri is throwing in his direction. He understands the girl’s apprehension, but he made his choice and he doesn’t regret it, even if he knows that what awaits him is a world of pain: Geralt has always lead a dangerous life and now that it’s tied to Jaskier’s--

Well. It’s probably not going to be very pleasant.

But if Jaskier is honest, their lives have been entwined for a long time, even if Geralt didn’t welcome the connection. He’s traveled with the Witcher long enough to have shared all the hardships and pain the road has to offer and he never shied from it. True, that’s mostly because he’s a lovesick fool, but that hasn’t changed and so he supposes it won’t be that bad.

It’ll be fine.

He’ll survive.

* * *

_Present day_

Geralt takes up a contract, because of course he does, and he leaves Jaskier to watch after Ciri back at their makeshift camp. Geralt wasn’t keen on leaving them behind in an inn, in case someone noticed the princess and so he figured bringing them along was the best thing to do given the circumstances. In case something goes awry, Jaskier has very precise instructions to take the girl and run as far away as they can.

Jaskier wanted to tell him that if he got killed, Jaskier wouldn’t be any help to the young princess either since he’d be dead too, but quickly decided against it.

So they sit at the camp, staying very quiet so they won’t attract the creature’s attention. Geralt thinks it’s a kikimora and so he thinks he’ll be done swiftly, but Jaskier is nervous all the same. He can tell Ciri is deadly worried too and so he does his best to put on a brave face, so she might not get further scared.

Time passes slowly, as Jaskier has found it usually does when Geralt is on a hunt. He’s always trusted the Witcher’s ability to come on top of whatever situation presented itself, but the memory of Geralt’s near death still haunts him and so he finds himself on edge, more than ever before.

He flinches, feeling something slashing through the side of his arm. Ciri looks at him, concerned and Jaskier hurries to smile at her, pretending nothing is amiss. He can feel the blood trickling down the thin wound on his arm; it’s not deep, he can tell but it’s painful and he’s also beginning to feel Geralt’s exhaustion. It’s too soon for him to be hunting monsters, he tires top quickly still and truly, he should know better.

The blood is starting to soak through his jacket and while it’s dark, he wonders if it’ll be noticeable. He truly doesn’t want to worry Ciri, so he picks up his discarded cape and places it around his shoulders, pretending he’s cold.

Under different circumstances, he thinks the princess would see through his charade, but right now she’s a little distracted.

He feels a sudden wave of relief and he realizes Geralt has finished the creature off. He lets out a sigh, relieved himself and he wonders not for the first time just how the spell works. Stregobor mentioned their bodies were now mirror images of each other, so they’d get any wound the other did, no matter how minor. He did not mention they’d share impressions or feelings but Jaskier has come to realize that a lot of the things he feels lately don’t truly come from him, so he figures they must be Geralt’s.

It could be an unexpected side-effect, but he very much doubts it. He’s fairly certain the sorcerer knew about it and just conveniently forgot to mention it.

Geralt stumbles into the camp, looking a little disheveled and dirty, but otherwise fine. Ciri throws herself at his arms and Jaskier smiles a little, standing up on slightly shaky legs. He knew there were differences between human’s and witcher’s physiologies, but he never stopped to think about how great they were. Geralt’s endurance is… quite something, honestly.

“I’ll be right back,” he informs them, figuring he should check on his wound and maybe wrap it up before it soils his clothes any further.

Geralt grunts, sitting down on a log, Ciri telling him about the meager dinner they managed to cook while the Witcher was away. Jaskier smiles a little before disappearing in the direction of the riverbank he spotted earlier, ignoring how heavy his limbs feel.

Maybe he ought to tell Geralt about the spell, he thinks. If they carry on as if nothing was amiss, he’s not sure how long his body will be able to endure before he collapses.

He scrunches his nose in displeasure.

He can imagine how _well_ that’ll go.

* * *

“You look awful.”

Jaskier startles, nearly dropping his shirt into the river. The wound was a little deeper than he had originally thought and it had bleed quite a lot, so he figured he should tried to get out the stain while it was still fresh and he got a little lost in his thoughts, not noticing his surroundings, which was probably a bit unwise.

He recognizes the voice though and while he and Yennefer might not be in the best of terms, he doubts he’s in any danger. “Ah, yes, thank you very much Yennefer. You look awful too,” he greets, putting his shirt back on but before he can, the sorceress has stepped closer and is inspecting the sigil on his stomach.

Oh, this is bad, real bad.

“When did this happen?” she asks, sounding somewhere between curious and honestly concerned.

“A few weeks ago,” Jaskier replies, figuring there’s little use on lying. Judging by her reaction, Yennefer probably knows the spell engraved on his skin.

“This is very old, very dark magic,” she murmurs, her fingers tracking the scar delicately. “ I’d ask for whom you’d do this, but that’s rather obvious, isn’t it? There aren’t many sorcerers who would dare to try it, though. Who did it for you?”

Jaskier pulls away, going back to buttoning up his shirt, uncomfortable with the many questions. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence, Yennefer?” he asks, ignoring her words, and the woman watches him in silence for a bit, surveying his appearance.

“You truly look awful,” she points out. “You’re dying.”

“Technically, no. I mean, as long as Geralt doesn’t get himself killed, I’ll be perfectly fine,” he replies, all too aware of how close to hysterics he sounds. These last few days haven’t been easy on him and he’s noticed he looks a little sick, skin too pale, but he refuses to think too much about it.

“Why haven’t you told him?” she asks and of course she has figured out he hasn’t. Lovely, really. He’s too transparent, apparently. 

Jaskier scoffs. “And have him even more annoyed at my presence? I’m enough of a burden as it is, if he was to find out our lives are tied together, how do you imagine that’ll go? If he knew he has to be extra careful less I get seriously injured too--” he interrupts himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. Why is he telling her all this, anyway? They’re not _friends_ and he doubts he’ll get much sympathy from Yennefer of all people, so...

“He needs to be more careful,” she points out, not ungently. “A minor brush for him might as well be a death sentence to you.”

“Ah, how sweet. And here I thought you didn’t like me.” He’s being a jerk and he knows it, but he doesn’t like how this conversation is going, not at all and he should leave now, truly. He’s been gone for too long and Geralt and Ciri must be wondering what happened to him and if they come looking--

“I do,” Yennefer says, stopping his slightly hysterical musings. “I also find you awfully annoying, but that’s not mutually excluding is it?” she adds with a playful grin that she probably thinks it’s charming, but that has Jaskier rolling his eyes.

“It kinda is,” he replies sulkily, putting his cape back on, watching her warily. The woman frowns, considering him, still looking concerned. “What are you doing here, Yennefer?” he repeats and she sighs, seemingly deciding to let the matter go for now.

“We’re not done with this conversation,” she warns seriously. “But we’ll go back to it later. For now though-- shall we get back to your camp? I’m sure Geralt is working himself up into a right panic, with you being gone for so long.”

Jaskier nods, resigned. He’s not precisely thrilled at Yennefer’s presence, but maybe the sorceress will manage to convince Geralt to take it easier for a while. He’s still healing, after all.

And he could do with a little break too; it’s tiring to try to keep the secret from Geralt, but with Yennefer around, he knows the Witcher won’t be paying any attention to him. Painful as the notion once was, now it comes as a sort of relief.

Who would have thought, he would one day be happy to see Yennefer after all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I’m so sorry about the late update, but life kept getting on the way :P But now I have a little more time and, hopefully, the next one won’t take as long :P  
> So, without further ado, enjoy!

The minute he closes the door after himself, Jaskier falls onto his knees, a pained sound escaping his lips. His left side aches in ways he wasn’t aware it could ache and he can all too well imagine the terrible bruise forming there. He takes a deep breath, but as it turns out that’s a bad idea because it only makes him ache some more.

It’s truly a miracle he managed to make it to the town, let alone to the inn. He’s fairly certain Ciri managed to get the whole story of the fight out from Geralt as they made their way back after his latest contract, but Jaskier hadn’t been in any state of mind to pay any attention, which is a pity really. All things considered though, he thinks he’s doing a decent job of keeping his little secret, but he’s not sure how much longer he’ll manage to.

The door opens abruptly, making him scramble back onto his feet, ignoring the flash of pain that shoots through him at the sudden movement. The pain leaves him breathless, lightheaded and trying to smile through it feels like too much of a challenge.

“Geralt,” he greets through clenched teeth, in an effort to not sound like he’s dying.

The Witcher frowns at him and Jaskier forces himself to stand a bit straighter, despite every muscle in his body protesting against it. He just wants to lie down on his good side and curl into himself and sleep for a week if possible. “What are you doing?” Geralt asks, watching him closely and Jaskier tells himself now is not the time to show any weakness.

“Whatever you mean?” he asks, aiming to sound innocent and missing the mark by a mile. 

“You seem--” Geralt begins, chewing on his lip as he considers his next words carefully. “There’s something off about you,” he eventually settles for and Jaskier has the sudden urge to laugh hysterically.

“I assure you I don’t know what you mean,” Jaskier argues with his best fake smile plastered on his face. “I’m the same as always.”

Geralt frowns, still considering him and Jaskier can feel his control of his own body slipping. He’s too tired and in pain to pretend otherwise, but _needs must_. Geralt must not know, must never find out what he did and in order for that to happen, Jaskier needs to get a handle of himself.

Finally, Geralt grunts, signaling his willingness to drop the subject for the moment. “We’re bunking in together,” he informs him and Jaskier’s stomach drops to his feet. In the past, he’d have been delighted to share a room with Geralt but now--

“It’s a single bed,” he points out, something that wouldn’t have mattered to him before but now all he can think about is the risk it involves. If Geralt brushes against him during the night, he’s not sure he’ll manage to contain a pained groan and that-- that--

“There were only two rooms left,” Geralt says gruffly, tone a bit… off. If Jaskier was paying any more attention he’d know he sounds hurt but right now he can’t focus on anything other than the pain radiating from his side. “The other one is a double, but I thought it’d only be polite to let Yennefer and Ciri have it.”

That-- that sounds very logical. “Sure, that’s-- it’s fine, we’ll be fine.”

What choice does he have, after all?

Geralt opens his mouth to say something else but the door opens abruptly once more, startling them. Jaskier wraps an arm around himself, in an effort to soothe the pain that the sudden movement has caused, but of course it doesn’t work.

Yennefer peeks in, eyes narrowed. “Bard,” she says, reaching for Jaskier and grabbing him by the wrist. “You’re coming with me.” Geralt and Jaskier open their mouths at the same time to protest, but the sorceress is dragging him into another room already and Jaskier suspects it’s a testament of Geralt’s own pain the fact that he does not try to follow.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to piss off Yennefer. That sounds very logical too.

Yennefer pushes him onto the bed, undoing the buttons of his doublet quickly and efficiently. Jaskier makes a startled protesting sound, but the woman ignores him in favor of removing his doublet and then reaching for the shirt underneath. “That’s quite enough!” he protests, standing up. “Why, I’ve never--”

“Shut up,” Yennefer argues, pulling his shirt over his shoulders despite his protests. His side is aching even worse now, his attempt to keep his clothes on and struggling against the sorceress having done him no favours. “You big idiot,” she continues, examining the bruise that starts at Jaskier’s navel and moves all the way up across his ribs on the left side. “Just how did he manage to get injured like this?” she asks, mostly to herself, producing a small vial with some form of salve from her pockets.

“I imagine he was thrown against a tree,” Jaskier points out, flinching as Yennefer spreads the salve over the bruise. It _burns,_ but not unpleasantly so and it seems to actually be helping.

Yennefer huffs. “You must tell him.”

Jaskier sighs. “How many times must we have this conversation?”

“As many as needed,” the woman says, finishing her task. “As many as it takes for you to stop being an idiot. You were in a lot of pain and looking on the verge of collapsing when we were walking back here, one of these days...” she trails off, but there’s not real need to finish that sentence.

Jaskier sighs once more, unwilling to argue. He notices Ciri sitting on the other bed, watching his with wide, concerned eyes and he sighs, dropping his gaze to the ground. “It’d end badly,” he murmurs softly, poking at his side distractedly, noticing that the pain has indeed disappeared. “That’s good stuff,” he points out in a half hearted effort to change the subject and Yennefer rolls her eyes.

“I went looking for a friend of mine a couple of nights ago. Triss is good with healing magic, unlike myself.” She smirks, a bit self deprecating Jaskier thinks. “If you’re going to insist on playing martyr, I figured I needed to be prepared.”

Jaskier isn’t playing martyr, but saying as much will probably account for nothing. And she has a point, he supposes. “Do you think it worked on him too?” he asks, noticing the bruising is already receding. “Won’t it be suspicious?”

Yennefer shrugs. “He’ll probably think it has something to do with the spell,” she says, pointing at the mark on Jaskier’s abdomen. “Geralt doesn’t tend to overthink things.”

Jaskier isn’t exactly convinced that’s true, but he doesn’t argue. “Thank you,” he murmurs softly, putting his shirt back on. “I should-- I should go back to my room.”

“You should talk to him,” Ciri tells him, probably knowing he won’t, biting her lip softly. She’s worried and Jaskier thinks she might feel slightly guilty. It’s not her fault, of course, but he knows guilt is rarely logical.

He smiles sadly, shaking his head. “Good night,” he says, closing the door after him and padding down the hall towards the room he’s sharing with Geralt for the night.

He’s still not exactly _thrilled_ at the arrangement, but he’s less worried.

And that’s good enough for now.

* * *

Something is definitely _off_ about Jaskier.

Geralt frowns, undoing his armor’s claps with practiced ease as he considers the bard’s odd behavior. He’s been acting weirdly ever since they reunited, but Geralt hadn’t thought much of it. At first because he was still reeling from the fact that he did not die when by all means he should have and then because… well. He understood that the _issue_ at the mountains had changed things between them, they probably would never be able to go back to what they had before that fiasco and so he figured he’d cut his loses and try not to feel _hurt_ about the changes.

He has no right to complain, he knows. It’s enough of a miracle that Jaskier is willing to travel with him once more; to ask for more, to ask for forgiveness-- no, surely that is pushing his luck.

But there is something off about Jaskier.

He’s… _restrained,_ somewhat. Shy. _Silent._ And so very distant.

Jaskier used to be so touchy, to the point where it nearly drove Geralt mad with all his casual touching. Now he flinches away whenever Geralt tries to reach for him, always keeps a few paces between them, never lies next to him at night. He has stopped trying to catch Geralt’s attention at any given moment and while he’d deny it, it makes something in Geralt ache fiercely, the pain much worse than the one produced by his current injury.

And speaking of injuries--

Geralt frowns, taking off his shirt to peer at his new bruise. Except there’s no bruise to speak of, his side is a little tender but it’s not as bad as it could be considering the fact that he was thrown against a bloody tree.

He pokes at his side and feels no real trace of pain. He frowns, unhappy. He does heal faster now, he’s noticed and he doesn’t trust this development one bit. He traces the sigil on his abdomen, wondering not for the first time how the spell works: there’s no conjuring something up from nothing, so the magic must be extracting a price from _somewhere_ but Geralt has no idea from _where._

He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it one bit.

He had tried asking Yennefer about it, of course, right after demanding to know what the sorceress was doing there, her seemingly timely appearance a bit suspicious. Her reply, _you have an army after you, you know?_ hadn’t exactly been a relief but he had figured she could be trusted, regardless of the less than ideal way their last interaction had ended. On the subject of the spell though, Yennefer had said nothing, other than point out it was very ancient, very dark magic. Geralt had figured out as much, so the sorceress’ words were a little bit useless.

He thinks she might know more, but for some reason she’s unwilling to share and that can be nothing but bad news.

He could always try chasing down the sorcerer and demand for the spell to be removed, but he does not imagine it’ll go well. Stregobor is cunning, even if he managed to find him, there’d be no way of forcing him to remove it, not until he’s achieved whatever he was hoping to achieve.

The door opens and he looks up, only to find Jaskier standing at the threshold. The bard offers him a nervous, fleeting smile before he hurries inside, closing the door after himself. He’s not wearing his doublet, Geralt notices and something that feels a lot like jealousy flares hot in his belly. But then he thinks he wasn’t gone that long and that Yennefer was the one dragging him away and he frowns, confused.

Yennefer and Jaskier do seem to be getting along better now, but something isn’t quite right. Something doesn’t quite _fit._

But he has no idea what.

* * *

It occurs Geralt that Jaskier might be hiding something.

It’s been over two months since their impromptu reunion and the more time passes, the more convinced he becomes that there’s something he’s missing.

Now, that wouldn’t be too much of a problem: if someone understands the need or the desire to keep secrets, it’d be Geralt. So he’d be willing to respect the bard’s privacy, he would understand even if it made him feel a bit dejected. No, the real problem is that both Yennefer and Ciri seem to know what’s going on, leaving only him in the dark.

He notices it, even if they think he doesn’t. His keen ear might not pick up their whole conversations by the camp side, their whispered arguments that usually have Yennefer storming away after calling Jaskier an idiot, Ciri trying to both console him and make him see reason (whatever that means). More than once he’s heard his name mentioned, but the sheer anguish in Jaskier’s tone when he mentions him has discouraged him of letting them know that he’s in fact (sort of) listening.

Jaskier doesn’t want to tell him something. _Why_ is not that difficult to imagine, not if you consider all the horrible _horrible_ things Geralt told him at that damn mountain. He’s not surprised the bard doesn't trust him anymore, but he does not understand why he’s still around then.

It doesn’t make much sense, truth be told.

He shakes his head, trying and failing not to feel as _hurt_ as he does. This is his penance for what he did and he should be thankful it’s not as bad as it could be. There’s no use on worrying about Jaskier’s motives: what matters is that he’s still around and that’s good enough.

Tonight, he tells himself, he’ll try not to worry about it much: after all, it’s the first time in the last month that they’re staying at an inn and he intends to take advantage of it. He and Jaskier are sharing a room once more, but at least they have separate beds this time and that’s-- that’s good, probably.

Jaskier had declined the chance to play at the inn tonight, claiming he was tired. Yennefer and Ciri are downstairs, having dinner. Leaving the princess out of his sight still makes him anxious, but he supposes he can trust Yennefer to keep her safe. For his part, he had a very small meal in favour of making use of the bath that the innkeeper informed him had been drawn at the bedroom.

He opens the door, not really thinking much at the time. Later he’ll wonder why it didn’t occur him Jaskier might be taking advantage of the freshly drawn bath, but at the moment he’s too lost in his own thoughts to consider this.

When he walks into the room, Jaskier is undressing. His doublet is neatly folded over his bed, along with his pants and underthings, leaving him only with his chemise that he’s in the process of stripping off. The bard startles at the sound of the door opening and lets the fabric fall, covering himself up once more but not before Geralt catches sight of the long thin scar that runs across his back.

“What happened?” he asks, stepping closer without thinking, a hand slipping underneath the other man’s clothes. The wound has healed nicely, the scar not that prominent, but _recent._ When did this happen? Why didn’t he notice before?

“Nothing!” Jaskier exclaims, jumping away, crossing his arms over his abdomen to make sure his clothes cover it. “Nothing, it’s just… it’s a scratch.”

It’s far more than a scratch and Geralt is determined to find out what’s wrong. Is this what Jaskier has been hiding? Has he been in pain all this time, pretending he’s fine and following him around as if nothing was amiss? 

_Why?_

“Jaskier--” he begins, reaching for him and Jaskier steps back, looking by all means like a terrified deer facing a dangerous predator. He stinks of fear and Geralt recoils, hurt despite knowing he deserves it.

“I’m fine,” the bard insists after a pause, slipping past Geralt to get to his clothes. “I just-- there’s no need for you to worry,” he promises softly.

“Let me look,” Geralt pleads. He only wants-- he needs to make sure--

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, shaking his head as he redresses. “Don’t worry about me. I-- I think I’ll go down to Yen and Ciri.”

There are a million things Geralt should say, a proper apology to begin with would be for the best. He doesn’t, however, nodding and looking away instead, ignoring the hurt and pain in his chest.

He hears the door closing after Jaskier and he curses softly, punching the wall in frustration. He groans, looking at the recently filled tub and then in the direction of the closed door, wondering if going after Jaskier would be in his best interests.

Probably not. In his current state, he might only make matters worse.

He undresses in a rush, dropping himself in the tub with a hiss. He’s angry, mostly at himself and his own foolishness. He should-- he should--

He starts washing himself distractedly, his mind far away. He knew there was something off with Jaskier and while the scar is a clue, it’s only that. There’s something else, he’s sure, but--

As he washes his back, his hand comes in contact with his most recent scar. A week ago a werewolf had attacked them, caught him by surprise and managed to tear into his back, the wound long and thin but not terribly deep.

He frowns. He can not see his own scar of course, but as he traces his fingers over it, he thinks it might a perfect mirror image of the one on Jaskier’s back.

He stands up abruptly, water splashing all over the floor.

What the hell has Jaskier done?

* * *

Geralt storms downstairs, barely stopping to throw on some clothes. He finds Yen and Ciri exactly where he left them and the sorceress arches an eyebrow, mildly amused, while Ciri throws a worried look in his direction.

“Where is he?” he demands angrily, his voice dropping dangerously. Yennefer’s amused smile drop, a frown appearing on her face.

“Who?”

“Jaskier!” Geralt exclaims and then flinches, closing his eyes. There’s pain in the back of his head, as if he had been hit and when he opens his eyes the world is but a blur. He blinks several times, trying to clear his vision and growls when it only makes the pain increase. “What the hell?!” he demands, although he doesn’t expect an answer.

“You’re not making any sense!” Yennefer exclaims, frustrated. “Jaskier is not here, I thought he said he’d go to bed. And you, what are you--”

Geralt groans, pressing his hands to his temples. The headache is terrible, almost enough to make him pass out, but not quite. “My head,” he hisses. “It hurts.”

He’s vaguely aware of the women standing up to check on him, Ciri’s tone filled with concern even if he can’t make her words out. Yennefer looks terrified, cuping his head between her hands, urging him to look at her. “Geralt, I need you to focus. Your head-- does it seem as if someone had hit you?” Geralt nods and that of course only makes the pain worse. “Well, shit. Ciri, go ask the innkeeper if he saw Jaskier leave. Quick!” The girl nods anxiously and hurries to obey, but Geralt barely notices.

“What-- what--?” he begins, but words fail him. The pain is intense and he grunts as new pain blossoms on his side. “ _Fuck._ Yenn, what--?”

Ciri is back and she’s telling Yennefer something, making the sorceress pale considerably. “I think--” Yennefer begins, looking at him with wide and terrified eyes. “I think someone might have taken Jaskier.”

Well, _fuck._

As if this night wasn’t bad enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> It’s an evil cliffhanger, I know, but we only have one chapter left so… sorry? :P  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s the last chapter! It took me a while to figure it out, but it’s extra long as a special treat to make it up for the wait ;)  
> Enjoy!

“Explain,” Geralt demands, trying and failing to ignore his building headache. It hurts badly, but it’s not enough to discourage him from getting the explanation he wants.

Yennefer frowns, the hands resting on Geralt’s temples gentle but firm. Ciri watches in silence, chewing on her lip obsessively. “Not now,” Yenn hisses. “I need to find out where Jaskier is.”

Yes, that’s probably a good plan, but Geralt wants answers and this time he’ll make sure to get them. This…  _ connection  _ is what his companions have been hiding from him, he’s sure of it and he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Alright, I think I know where they’re heading,” Yennefer says, letting go of him. “We should get moving if we want to catch up.”

Geralt frowns, looking in Ciri’s direction. He’s not keen on taking the girl with them, having the slight suspicion on just whom had taken the bard. But if he’s right and Nilfgaard is somehow behind Jaskier’s abduction in an attempt to lure them into a trap, taking Ciri with them is most unwise.

Leaving her behind however--

“I’ll go,” he says finally. “You stay and watch after Ciri.”

“Unlikely,” Yennefer deadpans. “For starters, I have no doubt we’ll be outnumbered even if the three of us go. Secondly, if Frigilla is there and I fear she’ll be called if nothing else, she’ll only have to take a look to Jaskier’s sigil to know you’re tied together and then you’ll be all kinds of fucked up.”

_ Tied together? How?  _ Geralt considers the scar on his back and the matching one in Jaskier’s and his frown deepens. There are other things to consider right now, though. “It’s clearly a trap. If we take Ciri to them--”

“We’ll need to be careful. We need a plan.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose frustrated. “How’s your head?”

“Better,” Geralt replies, although he’s lying. Yennefer frowns, but doesn’t press. “I’ll want a proper explanation eventually, but for now I think it’s best if we focus on the rescue mission.”

Yennefer nods, lips turned downwards. It’s clear she does not want to explain and Geralt doesn’t blame her, but he needs answers although he figures it can wait.

A few more hours in the dark cannot possibly hurt.

* * *

Jaskier wakes up with a start, pain exploding in the back of his head immediately. He curses, rolling onto his side as he empties his stomach on the floor. He has no real recollection of where he is or how he ended up here, but there are more pressing matters at the time.

He takes a few deep breaths before sitting down, closing his eyes to fight off the nausea. It takes a few seconds for him to recover and when he finally feels his stomach has settled, he opens his eyes and looks around the room.

The room is empty, not even a sleeping cot in sight. It’s dark too and cold and Jaskier stands up on shaky legs, going to try the door and finding it, unsurprisingly, locked.

He’s being held prisoner it seems. Well, that’s one question answered, but how did he get here?

Memories start coming back slowly, his headache increasing with them. He remembers leaving the inn in a rush, heart hammering maddly inside his chest. Geralt had seen the scar on his back and it wouldn’t be long now before he figured out that the fact that it matched his newest one was no coincidence. And when that happened--

Well. That’s not important right now.

So he left the inn and then-- oh. 

Oh,  _ fuck. _

He had seen the Nilfgaardian soldiers a little too late. He has to admit their plan of taking him with them instead of trying to fight Geralt and Yennefer in an attempt to get to Ciri is rather good. This way they know his friends will be coming for him and in the meantime, they’ll be able to call in reforces.

Well, shit. Things keep getting worse and worse.

There’s a chance of course that he’ll be left to his fate, but he also knows Geralt: he’s honorable to a fault. He’ll feel it’s his duty to go rescue Jaskier, consequences be damned. And of course there’s also the little fact that their lives are tied together now, so if something was to happen to Jaskier--

_ Fuck.  _ If the Nilfgaardians figure that out, he’s in deep shit. He does not fear torture or pain, or rather, that's not his biggest concern, but he fears the consequences it’ll have on Geralt. He knew the spell would come to bite him in the ass sooner or later, but he never quite imagined it’d be like this.

He needs to escape and he needs to do it asap.

Problem is, how?

* * *

“Explain,” Geralt demands once more, as they slowly make their way through the dense forest. They had to leave Roach behind, the road too full of trees and roots to be safe for her to travel. It would have been quicker if Yennefer had portaled them into the fortress, but she didn’t want to accidentally activate any magic wards that might be in place. Their progress is somewhat slow, but steady and Geralt is trying his best not to worry much about Jaskier.

After all, if Jaskier was badly hurt, he’d know, wouldn’t he?

Yennefer sighs, pursuing her lips, eyes fixed on the ground. “As I said, it’s very old, very ancient magic,” she murmurs sourly. “Forbidden too, as it’s unnatural: two souls are not meant to be tied together in such way.”

“Tied how?” Geralt asks, helping Ciri when the girl nearly loses her footing. The princess looks nervous, scared and Geralt hates that he can not reassure her properly.

“There is no conjuring something from nothing. There’s a give and a take,” Yennefer recites. “It was the very first lesson I was ever taught. To stop you from dying, a price needed to be paid. Life is a precious gift, beyond magic means, it can not be created artificially. But the spell-- the spell allows you to  _ borrow  _ it from another source. In this case, from Jaskier’s life force.”

Geralt’s stomach drops. “How does it work?”

Yennefer sighs. “Your lives are one now, neither can die while the other lives. Everything that happens to you, happens to him and vice versa. Each of you takes from the other as needed, to guarantee their survival.”

That sounds-- dark, perhaps, but not completely  _ terrible.  _ Sure, it means Geralt ought to be more careful in the future, so Jaskier won’t end up injured too, but at least it means the bard won’t be dying on him any time soon.

But-- “Why would Stregobor do that?” Geralt holds a grudge against the sorcerer and he very much doubts the feeling is one sided. Stregobor might have got what he wanted when Geralt was forced to kill Renfri, but--

Yennefer sighs. “Think of it as a scale. Both sides must weight the same so it doesn’t overturn, but your side requires considerably more energy because of your…” she gestures vaguely at him and Geralt tries his best not to feel hurt. “Your mutations make your body work differently from a human, so you need more of  _ everything _ than a human ever would. In order for the balance to be restored, the spell needs to drain more energy for him, in order to make up for your loss.” She pursues her lips, unhappy. “The spell is supposed to balance your energy, but it’s like the scale has been tipped in your favour. If the injury was worrisome enough,  _ the spell will cure you _ , regardless of the consequences for the other side.”

Geralt feels sick. “I thought-- I thought neither could die while the other lived?”

“If you were both humans, yes,” she replies softly, sadly. “In case the injury was deadly, the spell would guarantee both sides died. With you... “ she trails off, shaking her head. “I think that might have been what Stregobor intended all along: that you’d end up draining Jaskier’s life force which in turn would drive you mad with grief. He might just be testing a theory, of course, but there’s no denying how  _ convenient  _ the pair of you are.”

Yes, Geralt can see it now. For years, his biggest fear has been to not be quick enough, strong enough. For as long as Jaskier has been at his side, he’s always feared that one day his blood will be in his hands and then-- If he was the reason for Jaskier’s death--

Gods. Just thinking about it makes his veins fill with dread.

“We’re here,” Yennefer says, breaking him out from his quickly panicking thoughts. “We’ll continue this conversation later,” she promises and Geralt nods, although he thinks he won’t be continuing this conversation with her.

No, he thinks he and Jaskier need to have a very serious talk.

* * *

The door opens and Jaskier tries to make a run for it when a soldier comes in to bring him some water. He didn’t have much hope of succeeding, particularly considering his head is still pounding, but he needed to try. He needs to escape and the sooner he manages, the better.

He knows Geralt is likely to come for him, but he’d rather not wait for that. Besides, hadn’t Yennefer mentioned one of her fellow classmates was working for Nilfgaard and that she was even scarier than her? (Not that Jaskier truly believes that, mind. Yennefer must be the scariest sorceress in the whole Continent) If that’s true and the sorceress shows up, things are bound to get more complicated. He has no doubt the woman will figure out how he and Geralt’s life are tied together and she’ll use it against them.

He glares at his captors as they drag him back into the room, dropping him unceremoniously on the floor. He scowls, already thinking of another plan and then one of the soldiers hits him on the back of the head, knocking him out once more.

Well, as captors go, these ones are obviously not completely stupid.

That’s a terrible thing, actually.

* * *

Geralt does not like Yennefer’s plan, not one bit. He does not relish the idea of leaving her to fend of the soldiers while he slips unnoticed into the small fortress to try to find Jaskier, but he also knows it’s probably their best shot. They can not win an actual confrontation, there are simply too many soldiers roaming about and even if they somehow managed to fight them all off, time is not in their side. Every minute it takes them to find Jaskier is a minute that makes it more likely that refoincerments will arrive and they simply can’t risk it.

His newly returned pounding headache doesn’t help matters either, making the world spin a little and making it harder to focus. There’s also Ciri to consider, who is hidden at the forest, all on her own and so really, the sooner they get back to her, the better.

He startles a bit at the sound of an explosion and he huffs, amused by Yennefer’s theatricallies. It’s certainly attention grabbing though, so he can hardly complain and as soon as the soldiers become distracted, he hurries forward, knocking them out before they even notice his presence.

He slips into the fortress unnoticed and frowns a little as he considers his options. The place isn’t terribly big, but Jaskier could be literally anywhere and they don’t have much time. There must be dungeons, he thinks, but--

He remembers Yenn’s earlier attempt to figure out where Jaskier was. She had mentioned something about tapping into their connection and Geralt imagines he might be able to do it too, if he tries very hard. He has no idea how the magic works, but if Yennefer could use this connection to figure Jaskier’s location, maybe he can do it too.

He closes his eyes, willing himself to ignore the rest of the world. His head is still pounding, so it’s a bit difficult, which in turn makes him frustrated. He doesn’t have time, damnit! He needs--

But wait. He clenches his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus on the slight thread he can feel unfurling inside his mind. He grabs onto it with force and  _ yanks,  _ making pain erupt inside his brain. He curses but forces himself not to let go of the thread, pulling at it more softly this time around.

_ There. _ He opens his eyes, but he’s blind to his surroundings, following the thread that will presumably lead him to Jaskier. He heads upstairs, which wouldn’t have his original guess and he thinks that’s probably smart of Jaskier’s captors. He does not allow himself to dwell on the thought of just what would happen if it wasn’t for the  _ connection  _ that he still doesn’t understand, but that now he’s hyper aware of it.

_ I’m coming, Jaskier,  _ he thinks and wonders if the other man can somehow hear him.

For some reason he rather hopes he does.

* * *

Jaskier frowns, looking around him. He could have sworn he has just heard Geralt, but pressing himself against the door reveals the corridor is as deserted as it was when he first woke up again. He supposes there’s a chance there’s a soldier standing guard just outside, standing very still, but other than that the place is quiet. The walls are too thick, he suspects and with no windows in the room, no sound comes in.

But--

There’s a funny sensation in the back of his head, something  _ tugging  _ at him. He’s not sure what it might be and it might just be his imagination, but it doesn’t feel that way. It’s like-- like--

The sounds of swords clashing break his line of thought and he presses himself to the door once more, listening. There’s a cry of pain and a thud and the jiggle of keys as someone tries to open the door. Jaskier steps back, looking around himself wildly, searching for something to use as a weapon, only to find that there’s nothing at his disposal.

He’ll give his captors that: they’re certainly no idiots.

He braces himself for a fight, determined not to go without a one. He wishes there was some way to avoid getting hurt, if only because then Geralt will get hurt too, but--

The door opens and Jaskier let’s our a war cry before slamming himself against the figure standing by the door. The newcomer grunts at the impact, but doesn’t react in other way, Jaskier’s strength not enough to make them even lose their footing. Jaskier curses, ready to throw some punches, when strong arms wrap themselves around him, effectively stopping his movements.

Jaskier however is very familiar with this pair of arms and so he finds himself relaxing immediately. “I thought I heard your voice,” Jaskier murmurs softly, looking up at Geralt. “Thought I might have hit my head a little harder than I first thought.”

Geralt hums, expression completely closed off. “Are you alright?” Geralt asks, peering at him. “How’s your head?”

“Better,” Jaskier replies, because it does feel better. There’s still a bit of pain in the back of it, but otherwise--

“Truly?” Geralt asks, unbelieving. “Because mine is still ringing.”

Ah, that. Jaskier wonders how much Yennefer has explained and knows he must brace himself for an argument at the very least. However-- “Can it wait?” he asks softly. “We need to get out of here and afterwards-- well, afterwards I’ll listen to whatever you have to say.”

Geralt hums and Jaskier gulps nervously.

He’s really not looking forward to that conversation.

* * *

Yennefer has managed to break all hell loose, which is both frightening and very convenient. Geralt makes a mental note to never enrage the sorceress and thinks very briefly he’s very lucky that he only ended up with a broken heart after their little confrontation at the mountains: it could have been much worse.

And of course there’s also the little fact that he has come to realize that he had not in fact been brokenhearted, but that’s not here nor there.

Ciri is thoroughly relieved when she sees them slowly making their way to her, throwing herself at Jaskier’s arms. The bard hugs her and apologizes for scaring her, which Geralt thinks it’s all well and good, but he also thinks the princess is not the only who’s owed an apology.

Although maybe he’s being over dramatic.

Regardless, they’re all in a hurry to leave and seeing they’ve managed to rescue Jaskier, Yennefer decides it’s better if she portals them somewhere far far away. So after a quick stop to pick up Roach, they find themselves in some lackluster town, outside a fairly small inn.

It’s not very luxurious, but it’ll do for the night.

In any case, Geralt is too tired to be particularly picky and his headache doesn’t help matters. He’s in fact half tempted to not have that conversation he needs to have with Jaskier, but he’s also aware that’ll do them no favours.

They rent a couple of rooms, Ciri and Yennefer bunking in together as usual. Ciri gives Jaskier thumbs up before disappearing down the hall in the direction of their own room and Yennefer pats the bard’s shoulder, wishing him luck before turning to Geralt and throwing him a look that seems to say  _ behave. _

Which is most unfair, in Geralt’s opinion, but he knows better than to argue with the sorceress.

He and Jaskier slip into their own room, a heavy tense silence between them. Geralt hates the distance that’s been building up between them ever since they found each other again, but he supposes he understands it a little better now. In any case, he hopes the reason for that distance is the spell and not the fact that Jaskier does not want to be here at all.

“Well, I’m tired,” the other man says, making a show of yawning dramatically. “I think I’m--”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, firm but gentle. The bard flinches all the same and then he sighs, running his fingers through his hair.

“I guess there’s no running from the truth any longer, huh?” he says with a small self deprecating smile. “Fine, let’s hear it,” he says, dropping himself in one of the room chairs, expression deliberately casual, his scent betraying his nerves. Geralt frowns, not liking the smell, a little too similar to fear for his tastes, but resigns himself to it.

This conversation is important, he knows. It is, in fact, one of the most important conversations they’ll ever have: it’ll determine where they go from here. And while he does not understand why Jaskier would do something as reckless as tying up their lives together, it also gives him hope for the future.

After all, the bard wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t want a future together, right?

He watches Jaskier, his nervous stance and his pitched tight expression and doesn’t know what to think.

Well. Nothing for it now.

Time to talk.

* * *

“Why?” Geralt asks, as if he didn’t know the answer. Or at least Jaskier imagines he must know it, but then the man was always a little thickheaded.

Jaskier shrugs. “You were dying,” he replies, because it’s the truth or at least part of it. He couldn’t let Geralt die, no matter the cost. And all things considered, he really doesn’t think he struck a bad bargain.

Geralt frowns, considering. “And you-- you didn’t want me to die?”

Jaskier snorts, because really, how can he be this dense? “Obviously,” he agrees softly, not looking at Geralt directly. “I-- I am aware you’d be better off without me, but the same doesn’t hold true the other way around.”

Geralt makes a soft pained noise, shaking his head furiously. “I’m not better off without you.”

“Oh? I thought that the one blessing you wanted, was to get rid of me.”Jaskier says, aware he sounds sad and hurt, but also resigned. He shrugs non committedly. “That’s going to be a little trickier now, of course, but--”

“Jaskier, I didn’t--” Geralt interrupts and shakes his head once more. “I just-- I was angry. And I was wrong to take it out on you.”

Yes, Jaskier had told himself as much over and over again for the last few years. It doesn’t really help with the heartbreak, though. “It’s fine, Geralt. I know I’m not-- I’m not much of a travel companion.”

Geralt growls, frustrated and steps closer. Jaskier looks up at him, surprised and unsure of what to make of the other man’s gesture. “You are,” the Witcher assures him earnestly, kneeling on the ground so they’re more or less face to face, grabbing his hands in his and making Jaskier’s heart skip a beat. “All that shit I said-- it was unfair. And I don’t just mean at the mountain, I mean in general. I-- You were a true friend,  _ my dearest friend  _ and I-- I--”

Jaskier blinks, processing the words. It’s true he’s called himself Geralt’s friend many times in the past, but the Witcher never called him a friend. He was always fairly certain they were friends, even if Jaskier longed for more, but to hear it out loud--

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmurs, so softly Jaskier barely hears him. “I’ve been a very shitty friend.”

Jaskier huffs, shaking his head and squeezing Geralt’s hands. “It’s fine,” he murmurs, although he knows it isn’t, not really. He does forgive Geralt, there was never a chance he wouldn’t if the other man apologized, but the hurt lingers.

“It’s not,” Geralt insists, looking up at him earnestly. “And now-- to think you’ve tied yourself to me--”

“I rather think it’s the other way around,” Jaskier interrupts. “You’re the one at disadvantage here.”

Geralt scoffs. “You’re the one who’ll die, if it comes to it.”

_ Come again?  _ “What? No, Stregobor said neither could die while the other lived--”

“Yennefer says that would be true, if we were both human. Since I’m not, she thinks the spell will drain out all your life force in an effort to save me.”

Well, that’s not ideal. Still-- “Well, better you than me,” he says with a small smile. Geralt shakes his head once more, looking horrified.

“No! Never! Don’t-- if-- if you died because of me--”

Oh, yes, Jaskier can see how that would go. “Geralt,” he says softly, gently grabbing the other man by the chin and making him look him in the eye. “That’s always been true, even before the spell: if it came down to your life or mine-- I’d always pick yours.”

Geralt’s eyes are wide and something akin to fear lurks in them. “Why?” he asks softly, unbelieving and Jaskier smiles sadly.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not much of a mystery,” he says flippantly, earning himself a frown from his companion. He huffs, his heart aching a little: of course Geralt has no idea why. Still-- “What are friends for, after all?”

Geralt’s frown deepens. “No, that-- that doesn’t sound right. I would never-- I wouldn’t chose my life over yours. No real friend would.”

Jaskier smiles softly. “And so you understand,” he says with a shrug. “It’s really no brainer, Geralt. I’d rather not live in a world without you.”

“I wouldn’t want that either,” Geralt murmurs sourly. “And I would want it to be my fault even less.”

Jaskier hums, thoughtful. He hadn’t truly considered that, to be honest: it seems he might have taken Geralt’s words about him being a burden a little too close to heart. As he thinks about it, he realizes he never truly stopped to think what Geralt would  _ feel  _ about this whole mess: he imagined he’d be annoyed at having to be careful, but it didn’t occur him that his fate would truly worried him.

Hmm. That was rather awful of him.

“Well… I guess we’ll both have to very careful, then,” Jaskier says finally. “So neither of us gets nearly killed.”

Geralt scowls. “I don’t-- you know I don’t-- my life doesn’t--”

“I know,” Jaskier interrupts. “But listen, even if Stregobor had told us the truth then, I would still have chosen to go through with this. I mean, as I’ve said before,  _ you were dying,  _ so really there was other choice to be made. Not for me.”

Geralt looks unhappy about it, but seems willing to drop the subject, at least for now. There is, after all, nothing to be done now, except trying to live with it.

And honestly, it was never a question for Jaskier whether or not it was worth it. It was a choice he’d do over and over again, consequences be damned. As for this conversation, he thinks it worked out rather well: at least Geralt is not angry at him and he doesn’t want him gone.

So he’s willing to count it as a win.

* * *

“It can be undone,” Yennefer says in lieu of a greeting when they join the women downstairs the following morning. Geralt lets out a relieved sigh and Jaskier frowns, confused for a beat, before figuring out what she means and then looking somewhere between angry and annoyed.

Which Geralt finds most puzzling, but he figures there’ll be time to figure it out lately. “Well?” he says, sitting in front of her, waiting for the sorceress to explain. He wonders briefly why she didn’t propose it earlier, considering she’s known of the spell and its dangers practically since she joined them but he quickly figures it’s not the most pressing matter.

“Well, first you’d need to find a sorcerer that’s powerful as heck, but also either crazy or suicidal, willing to mess with such dark forces. Not me, definitely.” She says, picking up her mug and taking a long sip. “Secondly, the spell can be undone, but then everything that it once did, would be undone too.”

“Geralt would die,” Jaskier says, sounding horrified and Geralt’s heart twists. Last night Jaskier had been most emphatic about him wanting the Witcher alive, but his own life has never been a real consideration for Geralt. “No, we’re not doing that, definitely.”

“Jaskier--” he begins, because well, he’s not eager to die of course, but he also doesn’t want Jaskier’s blood in his hands. And now that Yennefer and Jaskier are around, he feels less guilty about leaving Ciri, knowing she’ll be protected.

“No, we’re not having this conversation,” Jaskier declares, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t even think about it! Fuck Geralt, after last night, I would think you understand, but you clearly don’t!” he’s angry, that’s easy enough to see, but there’s also something else in his tone that Geralt can’t quite place. He opens his mouth to argue once more and Jaskier yells  _ NO  _ before storming upstairs.

Well. That didn’t go very well.

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Boy, you’re dumb,” she murmurs with a shake of her head. “In which universe do you imagine the bard would be fine with you dying?” she asks and Ciri nods, a soft sad smile on her lips.

_ In which universe do any of them imagine he’s fine with being the reason for Jaskier’s death? _ Geralt thinks frustratedly, but of course he doesn’t say it out loud. He huffs, annoyed, glaring at nothing in particular por a long while before Yennefer throws a piece of bread in his direction, hitting him straight on the nose.

Geralt glares at her some more.

“Go talk to him,” the sorceress orders, ignoring his mighty glare. “There’s no other way around it, Geralt. You need to talk it out and come up with a compromise.”

_ But how?  _ Geralt thinks, a bit desperately. It feels like there’s no way to compromise: sure, he can be as careful as possible whenever he goes on a hunt, but he knows the day will come when he won’t be quick enough or strong enough or prepared enough--

“Talk to him,” Yennefer insists and Geralt sighs.

Nothing for it, he supposes.

But he does not like it.

* * *

Jaskier is sitting by the window when Geralt finally makes his way into their room. He looks in his direction when the door opens, but he quickly turns his attention back to the window.

Geralt approaches him slowly, as if afraid he’ll bolt. Jaskier huffs, but other than that he doesn’t acknowledge the other man. He’s mad, mostly and also a little sad: how can Geralt believe he’d be fine with him dying?

“I’m sorry,” the Witcher says after a brief pause, coming to stand next to him, his eyes boring into the back of Jaskier’s head. “I-- I mean, I’m sure you realize why I’d prefer that we weren’t tied.”

Jaskier closes his eyes, ignoring the flash of hurt the words provoke with practiced ease. “I understand it’s a complication that you don’t want. Still, if you think about it, it could be useful--”

“It’s not a complication, Jaskier,” Geralt hisses, his annoyance clear in his tone. Jaskier sighs, refusing to look at him. “It’s-- I don’t want you dead on my behalf.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Well, neither do I. So no breaking the spell,” he says dispassionately, feeling so bloody tired. He had thought last night’s conversation had gone well, but now he’s beginning to see it definitely _ didn’t. _ There’s still much unsaid between them, he guesses.

Geralt huffs, frustrated. “I can’t do this, Jaskier. I can’t lose you.”

Jaskier’s foolish heart gives a little flutter and he hurries to ignore it. Now is not the time to get distracted. “What do you want me to say, Geralt? I can’t lose you either and the truth is-- well, here’s the thing. My life in exchange for yours, seems like a fair trade to me.”

He knows Geralt doesn’t believe that, but it’s the truth and it’s all he can offer. “It doesn’t seem very logical,” the Witcher tells him after a brief tense pause and Jaskier lets out a mirthless laugh.

“There’s nothing logical about love,” he whispers softly, mostly to himself. “Loving you is the most illogical thing I’ve ever done.”

“Oh,” Geralt murmurs, his voice a barely audible mumble and Jaskier sighs, closing his eyes. He had thought he’d take that particular secret to his grave, but maybe it’ll finally make Geralt understand. “That’s-- well, I guess that explains it.”

Jaskier huffs, slightly amused. Only Geralt would react so calmly to a love declaration. Jaskier is used to his declarations of love to be meet with either honest delight or plain disgust, but this…  _ neutrality _ feels more heartbreaking than anything else.

“Jaskier, I don’t--”

The bard shakes his head. “No, please don’t. I know, but I don’t want to hear it. It’s fine.” Jaskier had thought he had known heartbreak, but he’s beginning to see he didn’t. Never before had he felt like he was dying inside and while he had always known that Geralt didn’t feel the same way, although he had known his love would be forever unrequited--

Suddenly Geralt is kneeling in front of him, holding his hands and Jaskier startles, unsure of what to make of it. “That’s not what I meant,” the other man says earnestly. “I just-- I don’t know what to do with this. I-- My experience with love is severely limited.” Jaskier can’t help the little huff that escapes him. Understatement of the century, really. “I think-- I want to keep you safe. I worry about you and it hurt me knowing you were keeping secrets from me and while I could tell there was something off with you ever since we ran into each other again, I didn’t want to press, scared you would leave again and I didn’t want-- I can’t lose you, Jaskier. Not to my own foolishness once more and certainly not to death, although if I had to pick one…” he trails off awkwardly, but Jaskier has got the gist of it.

_ Oh,  _ he thinks. Maybe it’s not as hopeless as he thought.

“Well,” he says, finally meeting Geralt’s eyes. “I’m definitely not going anywhere. All things considered, I think it’s better if we stick together, don’t you think?” he aims to sound lighthearted, but his voice breaks a little.

“Jaskier, I--”

“No, listen,” Jaskier interrupts, shaking his head. “Let’s get a few things straight: I chose to save you, consequences be damned. I might have not know the full implications of the spell, but even if I had, I’d have agreed to it. And since it’s my life the one in the line, don’t you think you could extend me the courtesy of respecting my decision?”

Geralt looks at him with a surprised expression, seemingly having failed to think of it like that. Geralt frowns a little, unsatisfied but nods. “Good,” Jaskier says. “Secondly, I’m staying, because let’s also be practical here: if someone finds out of the connection, they won’t hesitate to use it against us so it’s safer like this. And before you say anything--” he carries on when Geralt looks ready to protest. “When I chose to start following you, I knew what I was getting into. Or do you forget all the people and creatures you’ve had to save me in the past? There’s really little difference. If anything, I’m a little concerned about the effects me getting hurt could have in you, but--”

“I’ll keep you safe,” Geralt vows, earnest and Jaskier can’t help the small smile that comes unbidden to his lips. He knows he’ll try and that’s enough for him.

“Good,” Jaskier says with a nod. “Then… any requests?”

Geralt frowns, considering. “I’ve always asked you to stay as far away from danger as possible,” he says slowly. “I’d prefer if you actually did.” Jaskier opens his mouth to protest and then thinks better of it. That’s fair, actually. “I’ll try to keep myself as safe as possible too, but I-- I can’t--”

“That’s fine,” Jaskier hurries to reassure him. “I understand and I wouldn’t ask you not to. Just-- be careful. That’s all I ask.”

Geralt nods. He’s still not totally happy, Jaskier thinks but he supposes there’s really not much else for them to do. 

His thoughts come to an abrupt halt as he’s pulled into a tight embrace, Geralt’s arms around him feeling divine and Jaskier relaxes into it immediately, a small smile on his lips. “It’ll be fine,” he promises against Geralt’s ear, hugging him close.

It’s not perfect, he’s aware.

But it’s a good start, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I’m a little torn on the ending. It’s not quite romantic as I wanted, nor as happy, but I just felt like it was the most natural place to end it. But I don’t know :P  
> Anyway, as usual, a million thanks for reading, leaving kudos and/or commenting! You guys are the best! I had a lot of fun working on this; I loved the concept and had a blast exploring it :)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find feel free to point them out!
> 
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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